Crash Pad
by phoenix's moon
Summary: No one ever lingered around after Stark Industries speeches. But this bespectacled kid, wearing a crisply ironed shirt with pressed plaid lapels, sheltering deep-set hazel eyes, and hiding underneath an up kept bob of curly hair, stood at the door like a statue. The kid looked an awful lot like he once did, and perhaps that's why he spoke, and that's perhaps why they kept speaking.
1. Chapter 1

_Summary:_ No one ever lingered around after Stark Industries speeches. But this bespectacled kid, wearing a crisply ironed shirt with pressed plaid lapels, sheltering deep-set hazel eyes, and hiding underneath an up kept bob of curly hair, stood at the door like a statue. The kid looked an awful lot like he once did, and perhaps that's why he spoke, and that's perhaps why they kept speaking.

 _A/N:_ At the bottom of the page.

* * *

 _We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken._

 _~Fyodor Dostoevsky_

* * *

 _[Audio pulled from the Caltec auditorium security footage on_ _December 2nd, 1995, 11:43 AM]_

* * *

"Stringbean. You seemed to get a kick out of the speech. Hell, you've been waiting out her for what, and hour now? Just to see me?"

"Excuse me? Are you talking to—"

"Yeah, you. Are you actually in college? You look like you're thirteen."

"Twelve, actually."

"Really?"

"Yes, sir."

"Cute."

"Why are you talking to me?"

"You were waiting around for me. Why are you responding? Didn't your mom tell you not to talk to strange men?"

"She specifically told me not to talk to any sort of government personal, actually. No gender specified."

"Your mother is one paranoid bit—God, kid, you don't need to _snarl_ at me—your mother's one paranoid woman. Sorry. Look, I'm not government. It's a private interest, you know? Private interest with a famous name to it. Not government, but pretty damn close to it."

"Nor a stranger."

"See? Answer to your question, then. I'm talking to you because I'm not a stranger."

"I'm a stranger to you; you're not a stranger to me. Stark Industries holds a fifty-three percent market share in the weaponry industry alone. Naturally, as the CEO, the press is enamored with you and plasters your face across America as a result, 24/7 omnipresence for you with minimal effort from yourself. Instantaneous notoriety. Sir. Mr. Stark. May I call you that?"

" _Cute_. Oh, don't huff at me. You were so respectful and docile—"

"No straight, non-pedophiliac man over the age of twenty uses 'cute' to describe a twelve year old."

"You're eleven. It's acceptable."

"Not eleven but— so acceptable by whom?"

"Myself, and that's all who really matters. So suck it up, cutie pie."

"That's even worse."

"Kid, then."

"I'm a high functioning sociopath with a lack of parental figures in my life. Therefore, I don't believe that I'm a kid. Perhaps physically, but mentally? Well past that."

"Unneeded information dump. You want to give me a backstory with that? Still, kid or cute. Your choice."

"Backstory? Not really. So how about my name?"

"Cough it up then."

"I'm not telling my name to a stranger."

"I thought that you were the stranger, not me. Omnipresent famous man, remember? When was I demoted?"

"Five seconds ago. You're getting old and forgetful."

"Whatever you say, _kid_."

"I'm not a _kid_."

"And I'm not _listening_."

"Actually, you are. Sound waves are still reaching your ears; as sound is a longitudinal wave, the compressions of molecules in the air eventually reach the tympanic membrane between your middle and outer ear, and the ossicles there carry the vibrations caused by the compressions of air to your inner ear, in which—"

"I do understand advanced wave theory and biology. Still, smart for a twelve year. Are you a genius or something?"

"I—I don't believe that intelligence can be accurately—"

"Save it for the psych major. Kid, look, it's been great talking to you and all, but aren't your parents going to meander down and pick you up at some point? Believe me, I know that parents can get as neglectful and forgetful as two badgers building a nuclear bomb—fuck, those badgers don't even know what they're doing in the first place—but it's been what, an hour since the end of the speech? Fifteen minutes since we started talking? I need to hustle out of here soon, but if you need someone to walk you to the main office and call security, or if you're smart enough to do it alone…"

"It's fine. I'll wait here. It's going to be a while."

"You sure?"

"I'm fine."

"Yep."

"I am."

"Really? Come'on kid. Speak up. I thought you had some fire in you, back talking me, but no, you shut down like a freight train."

"Your analogies don't make sense."

"Kid, look, I'm not trying to pry—"

"And failing—"

"—but if you ever need someone to rant about the harsh reality of the cafeteria or a crash pad or some shit, here's my card. Number's on the back. Just don't go slipping it to the paparazzo pompadours. Pep would have my hide."

"As long as your girlfriend isn't attempting to immortalize Buffalo Bill, you should be fine."

"Oh, there's the smile I was going for. Good job kiddo. Are you going to take the card?"

"I'm fine by myself."

"Take it, kid. I know how hard it gets."

"It isn't—"

"I know. Look, take it. You're not alone."

"I'm not—"

"What time are your parents coming?"

"I—"

"Does anyone even know you're here?"

"Yes—"

"And know to pick you up? And when to pick you up? And not to leave you sitting here, talking to an old man like myself?"

"Maybe I—just— I— I'll take the card. Thank you."

"No problem, kiddo. You fine out here by yourself, kid?"

"I think I will be."

"And I've got a plane to catch, my philanthropy quota for the day has been fulfilled, and you seem functional enough to entertain yourself for a while. But something goes wrong, and you call your new friend in a high place, got it? Smart guys with family issues gotta stick together. Or something like that."

"I will."

"Catch you around then, stringbean. Talk to someone else if you get lonely, okay? Can't let a cute faced kid like yourself suffer, genius or not."

" _Reid_. It's Spencer Reid. Not kid; not stringbean."

"You just love to brighten up my day, don't you? Wonderful chatting to you, Reid. Spencer. Call sometimes. Line's always open for an angst-filled preteen like yourself."

"Thank you, Mr. Stark."

"My friends just get to call me Tony."

"Thank you, _Tony_."

* * *

 _[Recording ended_ _December 2nd, 1995, 12:06 PM]_

* * *

 _A/N:_ _And so they meet._

 _This story is going to be a dialogue-centric fic focusing around Tony and Spencer, hopefully all sequential. If you can leave any feedback_ _, that would be lovely. I'm trying to get used to writing realistic dialogue and, as this story is dialogue-based, every bit of input helps._

 _Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed!_

* * *

 _Edit 8/13/16: Changed the source of the audio from MIT to Caltec for the sake of continuity._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N:_ An eventual update is better than no update. Happy Holidays, folks.

* * *

 _"Have more humility. Remember you don't know the limits of your own abilities. Successful or not, if you keep pushing beyond yourself, you will enrich your own life—and maybe even please a few strangers."_

 _—A.L. Kennedy_

* * *

 _[Audio recorded from outgoing call from [number unidentified] [location unspecified] December 14th 1995, 07:03 PM.]_

* * *

"Hey kiddo. Planes are b-oring. Who even decided flying would be a good idea, period? There's, what, an hour left in the air? Pep's suffocating me, and I I'm not talking with her about another college speech."

"Who is this?"

"You forgot about me already, the infamous Tony Stark?"

"How did you get my—"

"God, MIT's next. _Apparently_ I can't have a hangover during it either. Doctor's orders."

"Why are—"

"Less questions, more babble. We could talk about bikes; kids have bikes still, right?"

"This is my dorm—"

"Not a question; a step in the right direction. But kid—"

" _Reid_."

"Yeah, kid, you told me, and I'm about to have to fight Pep off with a stick so I don't care—don't glare; I'm telling the kid the truth."

"I just got back—"

"Do you know the history of rocket engines?"

"What."

"History of rocket engines. The things that store rocket propellant mass, which a reaction engine ignites. Liftoff."

"Rocket engines."

"They shoot flames? Flames that light things on fire? You know, rocket engines."

"You called me—"

"Yes, I called you."

"—to talk about rocket engines—"

"They're neat. Neat things, and I'm sure you know too much about rocket engines. It's nearly a Caltec acceptance requirement."

"—because you were bored."

"And the stringbean gets a medal. Mh. Oh, babe, we should make that a requirement for employees. Know about rocket engines. Medals for the tryhards. Fu— Shit, Pep. Kissing shuts people up. Not _slapping_."

"Why are you calling a twelve year old—"

"You sound you're five and dress like you're fifty."

"I— I don't have to respond to that."

"You know you want to. Who could resist me?"

"Are you sure that _you're_ not five?"

"I'd be dead if alcohol poisoning if I was five. Where did all that respect go?"

"You never had it."

"Harsh."

"True."

" _Harsh_. I need a drink to deal with you. Maybe more than one. How old were you? Twelve? Twelve shots sound good. Miss? Miss? Yes, could I have— _Pep, are you trying to leave a bruise_?"

"Mr. Stark—"

"How quickly the young forget."

" _Tony_ , why?"

"I thought you were eloquent; last time we spoke, you didn't have the conversational aptitude of Steven Hawking. And I told you: I'm bored."

"I know."

"God, you're tame."

"Excuse me?"

"Is that your answer to everything I say? You're t-a-m-e tame."

"Um—"

"That spunk just dries up without the hand of the God Stark in it. Like what? The god of all things shiny and modern lends you his number and you just ignore it?"

"I didn't want to be a burden, sir."

"Seriously, kid. If I had to hunt you down in that castle of a building and tattoo my number into your wrist, I would. Fifty flights of stairs, kid. I'd walk up fifty flights of stairs, with a tattoo gun, just to make sure you'd remember to call. I'm getting too old for that."

"Mr. Stark—Sir, I mean—I need to get to class."

"Sir. So stuffy. Come'on kid, you left me hanging. Well, I left you hanging, but it's all relative and I refuse to take the blame, so you left me hanging. You're supposed to follow up, right? Basic business relations. Card implies interest. Interest implies calling."

"Didn't have time to call."

"Really? You, kid sans social life, didn't have time. I'm gagging over here. _Gagging_."

"I'm a math major."

"So?"

"So—"

"Mhm. Busy math kid doesn't have time to call. Oh, relevant—you know there's a new scholarship; have you heard about it? The Stark's Spunky Student Scholarship—Pep tried to ix-nay the alliteration, but what's life without tongue twisters? Got to screw with the Caltec English majors somehow; god, why would anyone attend Caltec to write?"

"Sir—"

" _'I'm a poor math major so I can't do formalities so please let me call you 'Sir', Sir._ ' Kid. It's Tony, and the scholarship is for general mathematics and engineering students; there's a nice chunk of cash poured into it, more than enough to cover the board and education of starving geniuses."

"According to the Food Pyramid, my meals are balanced enough to sustain my lifestyle. And I have a house. It's called a dormitory."

"Who would even let a ten year old stay in a college—"

"I wasn't aware you had the memory of a single-cell bacterium. I'm twelve."

"And the kid's back in town."

"And I'm not a kid."

"If I'm not a sir."

"Sure, sir."

"Spunk. You have to love it."

"Tony, I've really got to go. Prof. will kill me if I'm late."

"You promise to call back?"

"Reid, and no."

"No?"

"I don't make promises to pedophiles."

"Oh, kid, you know you love me. Or at least love my status."

"You wish. Call you later, Tony."

"Kid."

"Yeah?"

"Seriously. Call. I'll drop anything to respond. The line's open anytime."

"Sir, I don't even know you that well—"

"Did I ask for you to call me Tony?"

"You told me not to call you sir, so yeah."

"I love suck-ups. I'm asking you to not be a suck-up. Got it?"

"I'm not sure I do—"

"That's my kid. _Pep, stop pinching me, you're ruining the moment_. You better call, got me?"

"I—"

"Talk to you tomorrow, stringbean, okay?"

"Yeah. Talk to you tomorrow, Tony."

"You better."

"I will. Promise."

"You sound like a fifteen year old girl."

"Night, Tony."

* * *

 _[Recording ended December 14th, 1995, 7:10 PM]_


End file.
